


Dream on, dream on...

by Tiofrean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, John!lock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, PWP, Smut, song!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes back after a hard day at the clinic. Sherlock finds a way to relax him. Basically PWP, so don't squint to find any plot here. Lots of slash, though. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream on, dream on...

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so while I was listening to this great song, "Dream on" by Depeche Mode, it occurred to me that it can be interpreted as a highly erotic one. And Sherlock and John popped up in my mind instantly. So here you go.
> 
> Basically a smut, no plot at all. Johnlock slash, men going at it. Don't tell me I didn't warn you. Don't like, don't read.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sherlock is owned by sir A.C. Doyle and BBC, while Dream on is owned by amazing Depeche Mode.
> 
> Song to listen: Dream on - Depeche Mode.
> 
> Previously posted on ff.net.

John comes back from a long and extremely hard day at work. As soon as he pushes the door to 221B Baker Street open and steps in, he feels as if every cell in his body stopped functioning. He makes his way into the kitchen, leaving milk and bread on the counter top, not even bothering to put them on the right place. He carefully makes his way up the stairs and into the little bathroom attached to his bedroom. He strips himself slowly, as if his clothes were stained with something.

And maybe they are, for once without them, John feels much better. He sets the water temperature – as hot as he can stand – and steps under the steaming spray, almost scalding stream cascading down his body, helping him to relax. He moans quietly, feeling the delightful sensation of stress and troubles escaping his body, leaving only soft, mushy feeling behind.

Once finished, John makes his way to the living room, a tea in one hand, his morning newspaper in the other. He sits in his comfortable armchair, stretching his body that is now clad in boxers, jeans, and a striped, thick robe that keeps him warm and cosy. He starts reading one of the articles, trying to forget about today's patients in clinic, some of them being hard, some just downright stupid, like one 78 year old lady who sprained her ankle just because she had to wear high heels. Four. Inches. High. And then run all around the shopping centre. John feels himself smile. Idiots, idiots everywhere, he thinks, smirking and sipping at his tea.

And this is how Sherlock finds him, smirking, sipping at his tea, reading the newspaper he left on the table after their breakfast, because he had no time to read it. He comes closer, wraps his arms around John from behind, bending slightly over the back of the doctor's armchair. John stills, his posture straightens a little.

“John? What's wrong?” The detective quirks an eyebrow, his hands loosening their grip on the ex-army doctor. John sighs heavily, then goes back to his newspaper, sipping the remainings of his tea.  
“Welcome Home, Sherlock. I've had a very bad day at the clinic so I'll advise you not to try to get in my way today” John puts the cup on the coffee table that stands nearby and continues to read the articles. Sherlock frowns, then walks around the armchair to kneel in front of John, his palms making their way to the soldier's knees, settling there, squeezing gently.

John closes his eyes and tries to calm himself down. With an abrupt movement, he places the newspaper down on his lap, eyes still shut.  
“Sherlock, what part of 'don't get in my way today' did you not understand?” His jaw set and his voice cold. Sherlock shivers, no good. But he'll make John good, he'll set everything all right.  
“Let me help you, John... Just wait here a minute” he murmurs softly and then stands up. He goes to his room for a second, sounds of him, rummaging through his drawers, make their way to John's ears. He opens his eyes slowly just to find the World's Only Consulting Detective kneeling before him once more. He looks curiously into those opalescent orbs, looking for a clue, but Sherlock is a good actor and he has no problem with hiding his plans.

He fishes into his trousers' pocket and produces a small mp3 player which he connects to a set of portable speakers on the bookshelf.  
“Sher...”  
“Shh! Relax. Close your eyes and let me help you...” The detective whispers softly and John do as he's told. Let's get it over with. He closes his eyes and sinks deeper in the armchair. He feels how Sherlock closes the paper that is still on his lap and places it somewhere on the floor. Then he feels how the younger man places his hands on the doctor's knees, squeezing gently, rubbing them in small, soothing circles. These slender palms, moving oh, so delicately, are spreading pleasant tingling all over his legs.  
“I found a beautiful song the other day” Sherlock says in a low voice, barely over a whisper. “I thought that it could be useful on occasions like this...” his cool hands shift downwards, massaging, gripping, taking all the tension slowly away, replacing it with steadily building pleasure. He brings his palms to the doctor's feet, first the left one, then the right, kneading gently, pressing all the right spots. John moans above him and grips the armrests firmly, his toes curling and uncurling under Sherlock's ministrations.  
The detective places John's feet back on the floor and lets one of his hands travel up John's right leg, while he pushes the play button on the player. John hears soft plunging of the guitar strings, very rhythmic, hypnotizing.  
“What are you...” he starts, but is immediately silenced with Sherlock's lips, and oh... there's also Sherlock's pink, wet tongue darting out, licking and digging inside the doctor's mouth. John growls, his hands leave the armrests, they have been gripping, and are being pushed into the detective's dark curls, twisting in them, tangling with the soft, wild hair. Sherlock moans, his own hands twisting in John's shirt. Then the ex-army doctor feels Sherlock undoing his pants along with the last notes of prelude and one, cool, trembling hand sneaks into his underwear.

_As you're bony fingers close around me_   
_Long and spindly_   
_Death becomes me_

Sherlock grips John firmly and starts to move his hand tantalizingly slow, feeling the hardness growing under his touch. John moans quietly, his hands are travelling back down, to grip hard on the armrests.

_Heaven can you see what I see_

The voice singing the lyrics is pitch-dark, dripping with lust. John opens his eyes just to see his beloved detective, kneeling in front of him, eyes closed, nose nuzzling to his crotch. This extremely erotic sight sets John's nerves ablaze. He brings his right palm to those pale cheeks, feeling the sharp bone through thin, almost snow white skin.

_Hey you pale and sickly child_   
_You're death and living reconciled_

Sherlock opens his eyes, along with his mouth and John finds himself doing the same, gasping hard, feeling jolts of pleasure spread all over his body. The detective's hand is working faster now, his other starts to pull the trousers and pants down from John, who lifts his hips slightly to help.

_Been walking home a crooked mile_

Once his pants drop to floor and John Watson can feel how cool the air around him is, he finds himself gripping the chair hard, his knuckles going white. Sherlock sees this, of course he does. He takes both John's hands and, massaging them briefly, places them on either side of his head.

_Paying debt to karma_   
_You party for a living_

Only when the detective feels the doctor's hands gripping his hair for dear life, John himself making a small, desperate moan, Sherlock lowers his lips to the straining manhood, engulfing most of it's length.

_What you take won't kill you_

John shudders over him, his hips buck on their own accord. Sherlock closes his eyes, his skilled hands grip John's thighs tightly for a leverage and he moans deeply, the vibrations go straight to the thick shaft in his mouth.

_But careful what you're giving_

John pushes his hips forward, he can't help himself. His fingers tangled in Sherlock's dark curls tighten painfully, but he doesn't force the detective to move. Sherlock knows exactly what he should do to drive his doctor crazy. And he does just that. The detective swirls his tongue around the head just to suck John all the way in in the next second. His nails graze hard the skin on John's thighs, leaving ten, angry-red marks behind.

_There's no time for hesitating_

The doctor moans Sherlock's name, his eyes still tightly shut, his hips bucking on a steady pace. He can feel the honey-sweet pleasure building in the base of his spine, manifesting itself by a vice-like grip on all the nerves in his lower-back.

_Pain is ready, pain is waiting_   
_Primed to do it's educating_

“John” is just a breathless plea that escapes Sherlock's mouth, but John hears it anyway. He must have some sort of sexual-sixth-sense, the detective thinks through the haze of his own arousal, and gives John's manhood a gentle, playful bite. The doctor's eyes snap open, and he stares into those opalescent orbs.

_Unwanted, uninvited kin_

“Sherlock...please” he can feel the passion eating him from inside, the taller man's look doesn't help him much. He grips Sherlock forcefully by his head and kisses him roughly, all teeth and tongue, literary fucking the detective's mouth with his own. Sherlock moans, crawls up on John's lap and starts to grind his own, pulsing erection against the doctor's crotch.

_It creeps beneath your crawling skin_   
_It lives without it lives within you_

John places his hands on the small of Sherlock's back, bringing him even closer, kneading this lustful arse hard, making the always-cold detective shudder with restrained passion.

_Feel the fever coming_   
_You're shaking and twitching_

John sneaks one hand to the front of Sherlock's trousers, unzipping them and pushing his palm inside, feeling the hot, hard member jerking under his touch. His other hand wanders from one pale cheek to the other, giving it a firm squeeze, to finally set between them, rubbing gently on the tight hole. Sherlock starts to rub all over the doctor, his body seems to seek the friction with all it's surface.  
“John... please, John... take me...”

_You can scratch all over_   
_But that won't stop you itching_

“Shh...” John soothes him, he kisses Sherlock's hungry mouth, whispering with a breathy, shaking voice sometime between one fierce kiss and the other “Not here. Bed. Now” and he stands up, lifting the trembling detective with him, carrying him to the nearest bedroom.

_Can you feel a little love_   
_Can you feel a little love_

Once inside, he literary throws him on top of it, stretching his own, studier frame over Sherlock, kissing him once again.

_Dream on dream on_

John gets rid of their clothes and once they are both naked, he lowers himself on Sherlock, rubbing their bodies in a passionate movements, chests and abdomens creating delicious friction, their cocks sliding against each other, leaving them gasping for air.  
Sherlock moans deeply, bringing one of his hands to their joined erections and squeezes hard, biting his soft lips. The doctor looks down, then back up, into the detective's eyes. Silently, he asks a question and gets the answer immediately.

YES. NOW. I NEED YOU.

The doctor needs Sherlock, too, so he pushes himself slightly up on his forearms, kissing his way down the pale expanse of chest beneath him, licking playfully on the throbbing member he finds at the end of his journey. Sherlock jolts, growling through his gritted teeth, his hands desperately gripping sheets underneath him. John scoops lower, over the tender testicles, sucking on each one briefly. And finally, finally, John finds what he's looking for and Sherlock cries out in the dark room, bucking wildly. John licks his tight opening, sucking it from time to time, once or twice biting at the soft flesh around it.

_Blame it on your karmic curse_   
_Oh shame upon the universe_

The doctor pushes one finger inside and is mesmerized how tight and hot Sherlock's body is. It is also extremely responsive and, as soon as John starts working one, then two fingers in and out, the detective is trashing on the bed, moaning John's name out loud and gripping to the doctor's shoulder's for dear life. He'll leave bruises, but John doesn't mind, if anything, he enjoys the sensation.

_It knows its lines_   
_It's well rehearsed_

“Please, now... I can't... not any longer... John...” leaves the detective's mouth as he is rapidly climbing toward his own heaven of pleasure, John's name on his lips like a chant, like a prayer. The ex-soldier can't hold out any longer, so he lines himself up, he is once more face to face with the heavily panting Sherlock, and as he slides in, inch by inch, he forces the dark haired bunch of lust to look him in the eyes. Sherlock obeys and when he does it, he sees the whole universe in this stare, his own universe, named John Watson.

_It sucked you in, it dragged you down_

John is buried deeply within his lover, their bodies shuddering, muscles straining. Neither of them will last long, they are too wired up.

_To where there is no hallowed ground_

“John!” Sherlock pants, his breathing quick and shallow. “Move... God, move now... please” and hearing this plea John can do nothing better then to obey the dark haired man. He moves slowly at first, but quickly the pace becomes more frantic, demanding.

_Where holiness is never found_

John is trembling, his skin on fire. He can feel the tight heat of the body, deliciously writhing underneath. He can feel the hot puffs of air on his neck, followed by sharp teeth and wet, slick tongue. He can feel tremors crawling under the pale skin of his young lover. He can feel the hot, silk length, trapped between them, rubbing against his belly, leaking with sweet pearly juice.

_Paying debt to karma_   
_You party for a living_

Feeling all of this, John Watson takes a giant leap to his climax, his body jolting, his mind getting foggier and foggier. He feels Sherlock clawing at his back, arching off the bed, his body seeking more friction. The good doctor brings one hand between them, finding Sherlock and squeezing tightly, almost brutally.

“John!” It's a sharp cry, pain and pleasure mixed within, covered with lust like dark chocolate.  
“Yes...”  
“God, John, do that again...” and he does, driving into the pliant, willing body at just the right angle, hitting the sweet spot with every thrust. The detective's eyes are wide open and he nudges John's head to look into them.  
“Sherlock! Oh God” he is hypnotized, John is sure of it. Seeing Sherlock like this, vulnerable, needing, demanding... it drives the ex-army doctor out of his brains.

_What you take won't kill you_   
_But careful what you're giving_

“John, harder...”  
“Yesss... More, Sherlock, more...” He moans, when he feels the detective's nails digging into his arse, forceful enough to draw blood. He loves that.

_Can you feel a little love_   
_Can you feel a little love_

“John, I'm...”  
“Shh...” John silences him with a deep kiss. “Me too... Look at me... Sherlock... Look at me, please...” and Sherlock does. And what he sees, the pure worship and love in the doctor's eyes, makes him come undone.

_Dream on dream on_

“Sherlock...”  
...moan...  
“I love you, Sherlock Holmes”  
“John!” a high-pitched scream is all that Sherlock's brain is able to form as a blinding pleasure hits him and John's words push him over the edge.

_Can you feel a little love_

He holds on to John as a drowning man would have, moaning and shuddering violently through his orgasm, eyes shut tightly, teeth biting John's shoulder.

_Can you feel a little love_

The sight of Sherlock, so out of control, so depending on him, makes John's head spin. With a few final thrusts he comes undone, hips bucking wildly, hands gripping the man beneath him.

After what seems like hours, but really is just minutes, they come down from their high, limbs tangled, chests rising rapidly, fingers still stroking tenderly. The detective reaches with one hand to the bedside table, takes some tissues and cleans them both. The he rolls John on his side gently and sneaks up behind him, pressing as close to his beloved doctor, as possible, without crawling into him.  
John is half-way asleep when he feels two long arms slipping around him, holding him possessively in place, and a soft, warm huff of air lingering on his ear.

“John Watson, I love you...”

_Dream on dream on_   
_Dream on dream on_


End file.
